


Safety Net

by GunpowderFlaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Bottom Sam Winchester, Dean with tattoos, Dry Humping, M/M, Rimming, mobster! Dean, thief! Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24099802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GunpowderFlaw/pseuds/GunpowderFlaw
Summary: In which Sam lived in a trailer and stole shit, and Dean’s a mobster whose shit got stolen. But instead of getting rid of the thief, he asked him out.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 29
Kudos: 73





	1. It was Boredom, plain Boredom

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me in the middle of the night and to be honest I got nothing else to do, so I thought why not making use of the time? 
> 
> Thank Dnjungle for beta-ing! Again(that was some good back-scratching lol)! So that my writing wouldn’t be so annoying (thank Lord). 
> 
> I guess I need to warn you that the ending of this story may not be as happy as some would expect, so if you want out, now is the time ;)
> 
> For those of you who are still here, please enjoy!

When he came back to the dust covered trailer he called home, it was well past midnight. Moonlight cast down through the small window, creating shadows on his narrow dining table off of some indelible dirt patterns sticking to the thin layer of glass. Not bothering with the light, he yawned, throwing the bag he got onto the couch, and fell down next to it.

It was a long, yet fulfilling day. He took the morning shift at the local motel as usual, racking his brain on what he would do with the entire idle afternoon and the following night. Until a call from a friend - or business partner, to be more exact - dragged him away from his whiskey stock in the cupboard above his kitchen sink. Turned out there was a rich dude with too huge of an ego and too little brainpower, who kept his cash in a nylon gym bag under the bed in his hotel room and had enough sense of security to brag about it when having too much to drink. 

So Sam borrowed some fancy hotel staff suit and put on a dark blonde wig, and headed out without a single drop of whiskey in his system. 

He liked the way the cotton shirt fitted to his skin as he walked, smooth and thrilling, as though it was a borrowed skin instead of just some textiles. It was a costume that had been molded onto him, an indispensable process of becoming someone else entirely, and a piece of character he lacked when adopting a new identity. Sometimes he felt like those lore creatures named shapeshifters, by shedding his old skin he would emerge as a new figure, transformed by his very own custom metamorphosis.

There was at least half a million in that bag, and he took it all. Now the stacks were quietly lying in the crumpled laundry bag on his couch, denting the soft cushions underneath. Plugging the sink, Sam tossed all of the stacks into it as he opened the faucet, water splashed, flooding over pieces of green paper within a mere minute. The first step of laundering money — launder the money, literally, to make it seem used.

The next day he was going to meet up with his friend and an unwanted third company, who controlled the second, third, and every following steps in the local money laundering business. That was, if he ever wanted to hold onto the cash, he’d need to go through that guy. Or else he would only be able to go grocery shopping with it for the rest of his life. In the era of e-payment, unwashed money was basically useless. And that was probably why with all the money Sam could have, he still got his life like shit because he loathed owing the launderer anything. Since anything could potentially put him in a position where he would have no other choice but to be the person's pliant pet, with him being the one who fucking handed over the leash. 

Another twenty minutes later, after poking around in the sink and draining it to leave the cash to dry, he crashed onto the bed. Though it was too small to fit his overly long limbs, the mattress felt like clouds on a nice spring day. He grabbed the pillow and scooped it in his arms, before settling in face down, feeling content from the waning adrenaline high. 

His breathes evened out as he let his mind wander, picturing scenarios where he squandered the twenty thousand dirty money he would get from this job. 

*

"Hell, that was some launder you did." Garth laughed, studying a piece of the wrinkled money up close with a frown. 

His friend could be intense at times, becoming cuddly and having no sense of privacy, but people liked him. It was as if Garth had the ability of making others in the parameter feel comfortable. Sam wondered if it was because he's awfully inconspicuous and unimpressive, which, was actually an advantage when it came to their idiosyncratic choices of occupation. 

"Don't thank me." He made a face. “By the way you can keep the bag. It's not mine anyway.”

If Garth was a friend candidate, their uncommunicative companion would be someone that people would rather remain strangers with. There were all sorts of stories surrounding this mysterious figure getting passed around in local bars, and for the most part, cold, stiff bodies were involved in those tales. It was not like Sam believed in the spice-laced anecdotes, but being someone who had had unpleasant encounters with this kind of people, Sam knew better not to mess with them. After all, he wasn't planning on leaving town. The guy who had remained silent so far dressed himself in an expensive suit, silky materials slightly reflective when sunlight hit. For a moment, Sam imagined what that would feel on his skin. 

Staring back into the man's cold grey eyes, Sam nodded, and bid his goodbye as he turned to walk away. With all the business Sam had done with this taciturn launderer, he never caught the man's name. It could come in handy if later things got messy. Next time, he told himself as he approached his light blue van. After checking his surroundings and making sure he wasn't tailed in any way, Sam climbed behind the steering wheel. 

The time on his dashboard read half past ten, but by the way cool air lingered on his skin, he could tell it was around nine in the morning. Before taking off he had called in sick, leaving his phone back home on the couch. There were cracks on the country road leading to the clearing where his trailer parked, strange shapes of asphalt ostracized by the uneven breaches of the ground.

During the recent years he had developed a compulsive behavior where every other week he'd check his car thoroughly for bugs and anything that could be disguised as a hidden camera, ever since a hacker he knew through dark web told him about the creepy shit one could do with the possession of a mere computer. So he stopped carrying his phone to business altogether. And every time he looked at the rectangular tape covering his laptop camera, he felt relieved.

This time there was no one there to stop him from reaching up to the overhead compartment and pouring himself some of that amber liquid. His twenty thousand had piled up in the sink, dried and crumpled, with stains and spots scattered across each piece. It was almost ten, too early for a drink but too late to let the alcohol wash off the bad feeling he had in the sulking launderer’s presence. Nothing was really out of the ordinary with that meet-up, but Sam would get jittery and uneasy whenever he saw the person and his bougie outfits. 

Sun was up outside, Sam could tell it was going to be a nice day, warmth with a touch of chilly breeze. He strolled out to the recliner he had gotten for his makeshift yard, glass in hand as he gingerly sat down, hazel eyes on the woods marking the end of this camping site.

Life had not always liked this — bordering on two extremes of either thrill or absolute boredom of repetitive daily trivia. He had a father who had a drinking problem, and a mother he'd never met. They drifted through motels that had overly similar layouts that in the end he simply couldn't tell them apart anymore. He remembered the walls, yellowing wallpaper drenched with tobacco oil, so much to the point he suffered from second hand smoke when he was little, even though his dad did not smoke at all. Nevertheless, he had a decent childhood, all things considered. His drunk dad was surprisingly mild, and would always rant about his mom, about her blonde hair and her winsome smile. 

And at some point in his life, Sam went to college. Met a girl, even. But somehow they drifted away, the same way Sam stopped calling his father. He had wondered, why he seemed to have the ability of letting indifference worm in insidiously. Maybe he was too afraid of the feeling of owing others, maybe he just hadn't found the right person.

He was in pre-law, which was where he learned the trick of dealing with cops and staying away from trouble. Apart from that, he graduated with honors. It was funny thinking of his past, as people would usually peg someone who stayed in a trailer as some uneducated loser. 

He sipped on his whiskey. There was couple of birds churning in the distant woods, and as if concretized, the sounds danced over the trees, interweaving and then straggling, traveling for infinity.

Unlike his father who dwelled on the concept of revenge, he found himself unable to dwell on anything, much like when they were moving around places and motels on towns' peripheries. Nothing stuck, and everything slipped off. However, he did enjoy the thrills of stealing, but that, was again, temporary.

"For lack of a better purpose." He murmured as he downed rest of the whiskey, feeling the drag it had on his esophagus.

*

He went for a hike in the woods. It was early autumn, with deciduous trees already shed their first batch of leaves, the dehydrated organisms crunching as he walked over them. Every few minutes he could hear birds flipping their wings, going from one branch to another, seemingly free from trouble. But then Sam realized that they only had so long to live, suddenly he was curious if the birds had any self-consciousness. 

He kept on walking, until the road at the other end of the woods appeared in his sight, then he turned to the opposite direction, heading home as vague rays of sunlight became more and more tilted by the hours. 

Being alone was never what he had feared, but the deprivation of understanding was. He longed for understanding, it’s almost like he had been waiting for someone as bored by the reality as he was to tell him that he's not the only one. The inability of quenching this thirst made him even more bored out of his mind, and he was starting to pick up the predilection of leaning toward the most capricious choice he could think of. He would almost do anything to rid himself of the lethargic ennui.

Then he remembered the money still lying in his sink, it should seem used enough to pass as normal cash at the farmer's market by now. That thought elicited a flighty laugh from him as he stopped to take a sip from the half-filled water bottle. He could see the clearing from where he was standing, the trailer and recliner taking forms from their surroundings. The harbinger of nightfall enveloped everything on this part of the earth, Sam picked up his speed, subconsciously missing the burn of alcohol in his stomach.

At the junction of woods and the clearing, he noticed almost immediately as the ground under him hardened, that there was someone in his trailer. The light was off when he left, but now it leaked out through closed curtains.

There was no weapon on him, and he secretly cursed at himself for leaving the door unlocked. Getting complacent with the country life was obviously his first - and hopefully the last - mistake.

Yet he couldn't deny that a stream of excitement was bubbling up the same moment stress took over, as he carried himself over the threshold on slightly trembling legs. He didn't try to hide his footsteps, because the person must've been waiting for him, and he's not dead already, which was enough proof that he would be likely to live to see another day.

"Heya." The intruder said with a smirk. 

The man sitting on Sam's couch seemed calm, and as Sam took him in, he realized that he didn't have problems with assholes wearing suits, he only had problems with unattractive assholes with suits. And the person in front of him was definitely not the latter, with that pair of glimmering green eyes and his plump lips, adding up with the defiant look on his face, he could practically have anyone just by casting them a smile. The suit he had on was in plain black and white, but the cowboy hat and bolo tie he was wearing suggested everything but plain. 

"Who are you and why are you on my couch?" Sam crossed his arms, trying to appear intimidating.

"I'm Dean," The intruder stood up, and studied Sam for a moment. "and you, are tall." Dean winked.

Sam rolled his eyes, "Dude, get to the point, okay? I need to cook my dinner."

"Go ahead then." Dean settled back into the couch, unfazed, "I don't mind."

Sam glanced at the sink, only to find it empty. There was no trace of even one single shred of money. "You can't be here just to rob me." This Dean seemed like the fun-seeking type, so Sam put on a casual smile.

"Why not?" Eyes playful, Dean made a pouty face. "You stole from me first, I would only be returning the favor."

"From you?"

Dean nodded, seemed to be waiting for Sam to wrap his head around it.

"You let that idiot transport your money?" Sam breathed incredulously, "Hell, you must be really short-handed."

"Or maybe half a million is really not that much to me."

Sam looked him up and down again, and decided that the suit was probably worth a lot more than his first estimate. "Fair enough."

"Have dinner with me tomorrow." Dean said imperatively.

"What?" He huffed out a laugh, frowning. "Seriously?"

"I'll meet you here at six." Dean stood, hands in his pockets, "I expect you to take the offer, or next time I'll drink that hundred buck whiskey of yours. It'd be a shame cuz' I like your dimples there." Making a gesture for Sam's cheeks, Dean stepped out of the trailer while Sam stood there, slightly petrified, struggling for some balance between the threat and the intruder's facetious tone.

"Oh, and wear something nice!" Came Dean's voice from afar as Sam opened his cupboard to check on his expensive liquor.


	2. Mob job, to put it professionally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean had dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank Dnjungle for beta-ing and putting up with all my shit *bro fist*

"So how does a Stanford graduate end up like you? Stealing, and all that hillbilly trailer life?" The person sitting across the table asked, seemingly to know much about Sam with the languidly firm tone he used. His eyes shimmered in the candle light. 

Dean took him to some fancy restaurant at the other end of town where rich people's headquarters located, and now they were having a conversation that roamed dangerously on the edge of morally and legally unacceptable in a middle of a mostly filled dining hall. Which would be highly incriminating if you'd ask Sam, but luckily he was largely ignored because those people could just tell if anyone belonged to their social circle with only one look. And Sam was clearly short of something, which, warranted his social invisibility. But at the same time, though they were at the table together, Dean received a plethora of greetings and quite a few sneaky, flirty glances that he seemed to be enjoying, as he happily owned up to the soundless compliments.

"If you know me as well as I think you are, you shouldn't be asking this question." Despite his snarky remark, for the past twenty-four hours, Sam had been freaking out about this dinner - maybe a bit more than he would like to admit.

Last night after Dean left, he plunged his closet for clothes that could be qualified as "nice" by some secret cowboy mobster's standards. And to his trepidation, there was nothing except flannel shirts and different fitting jeans in the compact space fixed to the trailer’s bodywork.

For years, every time he needed fancy clothes, he stole - from the store, laundry shop, people's homes, anywhere he could find the right sizes. But later he would always throw them away when he was done, since his trailer life and motel job were not really particular about his outfits. Although it was a narrow time window for stealing, he knew he could still pick up something at the local mall. Yet for some reason he felt reluctant to wear clothes that were only make-do to the dinner. This Dean seemed to be an interesting guy, and for someone as bored as Sam, he was compelled to leave an impression. And wearing something that’s not exactly his certainly did not count as decent-impression material. 

In the end he settled on a brown shirt with light blue vertical stripes on it that he discovered at the bottom of a side drawer, and a pair of more fitted jeans compared to his usual choice for comfort over appearance. Obviously that was still too minimal for Dean's showy panache, but Sam could see Dean appreciating the effort nonetheless.

*

At six o'clock, as Sam was putting on hair gel in front of the bathroom mirror to keep his hair from falling all over his face, Dean showed up in a 67' Chevrolet Impala at the clearing. From the small bathroom window Sam could see the shinning vehicle slide beautifully to a stop in front of his trailer, its low humming stirring up the still air blanketing the clearing. 

He finished up fast and rushed out of the tiny room on hearing the engine shutting off, but Dean was already in his kitchen, popping open the whiskey bottle to pour himself a drink. The suit he wore was different from yesterday’s, with a dark silver shirt underneath a black suit jacket. No hat, but the bolo tie remained unchanged.

"Hey, aren't you supposed to drive in a minute or what?" Sam scowled as he grabbed the glass from the other's hand. "Unless you planned to eat here, otherwise knock it off." 

Dean was about to open his mouth to protest when he suddenly came to a halt, staring at Sam, his green eyes greedily taking in the view. "Damn," His Adam's apple bobbed, "you look good."

"Shut up." Sam barked, feeling smug while a thin stream of self-consciousness flowed over his skin, prickling. "You are one to talk." 

"Huh." Dean stepped closer while watching him intently, his expressions playfully demanding, yet his true intentions stayed inscrutable. 

The air seemed to stop moving, both the outside and inside of Sam’s trailer fell into a coterminous silence as Dean's emanating heat landed on Sam's skin. He fumbled to get a hold of himself and pointedly looked the other man in the eye as his defense, but there was an undeniable flush on his cheeks with Dean's sudden proximity. He was threatened no more than twenty-four hours ago, and now his body seemed to have a different opinion on his coercer. 

"May I have my drink back?" Soft breathes caressed his jawline as Dean’s head tilted, tongue clicking with the last syllable. Sam inhaled involuntarily, smelling mint on the tip of those words. There were fingers ghosting over his shirt-clad elbows as Dean spoke, nudging and encouraging him on.

"No can do." He leaned in to whisper in Dean's ear. Now it was Dean's turn to look shocked with his lips parted, swallowing collectedly. Best way to deal with a flirt was to flirt right back, but be prepared for the next level of teasing if your opponent decided to revenge and escalate the tussle. 

However he wasn't ready when Dean didn't move away, instead he stood there, chest to chest with Sam as he raised his head and bit down on the taller man's earlobe. Sam choked on his breath when he felt the tip of a tongue brushing over his sensitive skin there, a nearly inaudible whimper escaped him before Dean backed off, undoubtedly satisfied with himself.

Having lost on his flirt game, Sam was determined to play refractory. "You gonna start a staring contest or something? Get your ass out of here before I change my mind." He said, taking a swig of the whiskey from the glass he now held.

"What? Can't let this go to waste." He uttered defensively when Dean looked at him with amusement.

"You should know you look cute when you are pissed."

Sam froze, for a moment he floundered on the proper reaction before settling to look Dean dead in the eye, blinking as he rolled his eyes slowly to make sure the other received his message. 

Dean's laugh sounded somehow idiotic, but his face beamed with a kind of excitement of serendipity. The mobster inhaled, opening his mouth—

"I don't wanna hear it." Sam cut him off abruptly, walking out of the trailer in strides.

"You sure you know what I was going to say?" Dean followed and caught up to him, unrelenting. 

It was getting dark, bleak skies heralding a late-night rain. He yanked open the Impala's passenger side door, resting his right hand on top, "You know, to be honest I thought you were more interesting than... whatever you are." He shrugged, "and that was part of the reason I agreed to go out with you."

"And the rest parts being I threatened you?" Dean smiled, climbing into the driver's seat.

"Yeah." He opened his palms noncommittally, sitting down onto the leather covered seat.

"Not because of your danger-loving heart?"

"Nope," he immediately denied, in a faintly high-pitched tone, as Dean started the car, "not at all."

Dean gave him a side glance of disbelief, but said nothing as they drove off onto the two-lane blacktop.

*

"I know you had a drunk dad and a childhood spent mostly in motels, but you made it out and went to college, quite a good one if you ask me. You hate the tediousness of what people would describe as a normal life, which is why you gave up the career of a lawyer and pursued cheap thrills of being a petty thief." Dean paused a bit, as if waiting for Sam's mind to register what he just said, "And your mom's name was Mary."

He didn't know his mom's name.

"What? Shocker that I know you better than yourself?" His expressions must have given him away when he saw the telltale of a smirk on Dean's elegantly sculpted face. A face that didn't match his personality from what Sam could tell, but he had gotten used to the flirty criminal faster than he could possibly imagine, the banters between them natural like they were puzzle pieces fitting together, it was funny that they only knew each other for a little over a day.

"You know me a bit too well, Dean," he emphasized the other's name purposefully, "it seems that I am at an inferior position here."

"Make the scale more even, then." Dean pulled out a poker face and straightened his back, readying himself for what had to come.

Sam suppressed the urge to scratch his head. "Um, why the mob?" 

"Family business." Dean answered without blinking.

"Okay, but have you ever thought about doing something else?"

"Maybe." It was obvious that hesitation got the better of Dean, he frowned, as if recalling a distant memory. "But that won't make any difference. You see, I don't really fit in with normal people and their perfectly legal businesses."

"Yeah, I can see that." He smiled, knowing it would make his dimples salient. "Next question, why do you care about me?"

"That's where you smart little head fails to function, Sammy." Pausing to let the nickname hang for some time, Dean put down the fork to rest his left hand on Sam's knee under the table. "Think, Sammy, think."

His kneecap felt hot. "Because I stole your money?"

"Well that's most definitely true, but if it was only that, I would send an assassin instead of going on my own." The hand stayed under the table as Sam looked around them, unnerved for the possibility of being seen.

"Because you are like me." Not waiting for an answer, Dean continued, finally pulling back to clasp his hands together on the tabletop, "Hell, you tried to be a regular guy, but it didn't work, did it?"

There was a crisp sound of glass being shattered somewhere in the back, the disruption accompanied by hurried steps and low murmurs of complaints and apologies. A handful of customers turned in search for the origin of the noise, but Sam's gaze was wholly fixed on Dean, who merely raised his brows at the incident and kept his attention on the taller man as well.

"No, it didn't." He confirmed after the commotion. Their knees bumped, and Sam searched Dean's face for evidence of the extra contact being implemented on purpose, but to no avail. "Let's move to the part where I ask you what do you want, shall we?"

"Oh, it's pretty simple, I'm gonna make you a job offer."

"A job offer?"

"That you will accept, so that everyone leaves this place happy." Dean made a gesture of holding a pistol like actors in an old cowboy movie.

"Care to elaborate on the job?"

"Well, Sam, this is the fun part. You help me get the stuff in this safe - so we're even, financially - and then I'll offer you a position in my organization."

"First of all, where is this safe we are talking about?" Sam pressed, though intrigued, his reason had won the upper hand. "Second of all, do I really have a choice?"

"The safe is in Dick Roman's office. You don't need to know what's in it but I reckon with a brain like yours, you'll figure it out soon enough." Dean said, his expressions oddly akin to pride. "So guess I'll just tell you right now. What I want are his business plan and bearer bonds."

"Wait, who the hell is Dick?"

"How come you don't know him? You just met him yesterday." For a moment, Dean sounded genuinely nonplussed. Then his confusion shifted to a kind of surprised realization, his eyes wide, corners of his mouth quirking. "Dude, don't tell me you never got his name."

"The launderer?" Sam laughed incredulously,"I always thought knowing his name could be useful, but he has been extremely discreet.” 

“You can always find a way to return the favor.” Dean winked. “And for your job offer, I’m afraid the first part is non-negotiable.”

“But I can still have a say in the second part?”

“Sure, it’ll be entirely up to you.” 

A serene silence filled the space between them as they both resumed finishing their food, each with a unique agenda in mind. Clatters of their silverware interlaced with other customers’ undecipherable talks, creating a paucity of clarity as Sam listened to himself chewing, once, twice, until his throat contracts and the last bit of his dessert vanished from his plate.

“Can I ask you something?” The mobster looked unexpectedly serious.

“Um, okay?”

“Why stealing? I mean, it’s obvious that you love danger, but why not aiming for something more? With your skills, you could easily make a career in my line of work.” Dean took a breath, looking nervous for the first time. “And I’d love to have you.”

“Honestly? I’m not sure.” He answered without thinking for an embellished version, “I guess I don’t love risk as much as I love the thrill.”

“What if I can offer you protection?” Dean whispered, as though he was afraid of breaching some criminal confidentiality agreement, “I can afford awesome lawyers, and there are cops on my payroll.”

Albeit his impulse to say yes, he felt obligated to do a background research on Dean. Working with someone in a business inundated with betrayal and backstabbing, the amount of trust required of a person was unmeasurable, and that was exactly why Sam always worked independently. He couldn’t imagine handing out his freedom of choices to someone he didn’t care for, to someone that equally didn’t give a damn about him, and most importantly, to someone so dull and soulless he couldn’t even look at them. So he only had friends, not colleagues. 

“Let’s cross that bridge when we get there.” He said in contemplation, for he hoped, just as what Dean said, that they were alike. He hoped so much that he almost agreed to Dean’s proposal, and in that way he could keep Dean close and have a chance of finding out the truth about them. “For now, I’ll need the floor plans of Dick’s office building.” 

“I have it on me.” Dean flashed his signature smirk as he gestured for his jacket’s inner pocket.

“Great. Hey, um, do you want to have a drink?” He couldn’t resist the urge of scratching his nose, “Whiskey at my place while we plan out the Dick-job?”

Dean snorted at the pun. “Why not?” He laughed lightheartedly.

Ten minutes later, Sam walked out of the restaurant with a childish hope that made his heart float.


	3. Could what happened in the trailer stay in the trailer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, beta’d by the badass Dnjungle!
> 
> Warning: it gets sappy in this one because the author listened to emo music while writing

This time, Sam was the one pouring whiskey into Dean's glass.

Cicadas in the surrounding woods had stopped shrilling as temperature dropped steeply in the last couple of weeks, now Sam had to wrap himself in the rainbow blanket on his couch to fend off the coldness seeping in through the trailer's seams. The chilly air drove him to constantly reach for his glass, and the cozy burn of good liquor made him lightheaded in a satisfying lethargy.

Dean's body was pressed to his side, and after a few drinks, Sam felt perfectly comfortable with the solid touch. Even when Dean wrapped an arm loosely around his waist, he wasn't as alarmed as he would be sober.

After letting Dean carry out a thorough diagnosis on the security levels of his laptop (Dean looked pretty pleased upon seeing the tape-covered camera), the flash drive Dean brought was now connected to it, a series of complex floor plans with hidden doors and secret rooms spread out on his screen. The address line at the bottom right corner indicated an office building in financial center downtown.

"He owns a frigging investment bank?"

Dean studied him for a while, a glass between his fingers, and he was sipping on the amber liquid now and then. "Yep." His lips popped. "The safe is in his office on the top floor. And I'm sure you can easily walk in dressing up as an employee."

"Trying to put me in a suit?" He shook his head, grinning as he felt the alcohol rushing through his veins. He felt giddy. "You can always just ask."

"Will that work?" Dean's breath landed on his ear, "or you just want to have a chance to turn me down?"

"It may be contrary to your impression of me, but I do like nice clothes. I just... don't necessarily wear, or keep them." He slurred while raising his hands to gesture at the trailer's interior. "Once you get used to this, you'll be able to resist consumptionism. Isn't that great?"

Looking down confusedly at his again filled glass, Sam drained the liquid without further thinking. As long as there was booze in him, he felt content and warm and happy.

"Alright." Dean's arm tightened, somehow making himself appear taller than Sam sitting down, and now Sam was almost resting his head against the other's shoulder. "Would you please wear some suit? And the blonde wig, too?"

Sam giggled, "Greedy." He knew he was getting tipsy when everything began to feel magnified, but curiously Dean's presence wasn't as threatening as it should've been, it was different from when Sam was with his so-called friends in some bar after a job where the need to stay sober was imminent. For now, the figure next to him merely existed, as though it would stay intransigent and fixed, taking the place of his trailer to become a new anchor in his life.

Rain began falling down on the outside, forming a thin stream of water on the trailer's window as lights created some warm auras around the edges of those water lines. Sam realized that he had never invited anyone to his trailer before Dean.

"Not my fault you look good in everything."

"That including when I'm in nothing?" In his swimming head, it felt like the right time to flirt. It was what people would do when there were incredibly hot people around, Sam mused, so it should be fine if he did it too, totally made sense.

It was clear that Sam's words took effect in a matter of seconds as Dean's eyes darkened almost immediately, he licked his lips. "You are way more fun when you are drunk." 

"And you, are a lame mobster, even when you are drinking." Sam accused, "Claiming that we are alike, but so far I've spotted only one thing that we have in common—being criminals."

"Oh Sam, I'm just good at hiding things." Said Dean with affection, "I had a drunk dad just like you, and my mom died when I was four. Her parents were in the mob, so they passed their business to me."

"Aw, sounds kind of awful. But what happened to your dad? I mean, why didn't they get him in the mob?" He took another long swig from his glass.

"I guess they blamed him for my mom's death." Dean looked down, then searched for Sam's eyes with his flickering own. "And it seemed that he felt guilty too, began drinking... well, you know the rest."

The sudden weight of Dean's stare revoked some degree of clarity in Sam's mind. He looked around, the only light source in the trailer was a small lamp on the wooden side table, wavy lines delineating the lamp's hood occluded some of the all-encompassing yellow light, carving out pieces of space, rendering them with darker shades. Those color blocks swam as he shed the blanket, which was getting uncomfortably warm and suffocating with his continuous intake of alcohol. Sam knew what he must look like at this time—cheeks pink from the alcohol and eyes glassy, hiding in shadows of his sharp brow bones.

He gathered his scattering thoughts, hanging onto the last string of logic he could summon. "How do I know if any of what you said is true?"

"I'll show you relevant files." Dean's fingers circled his waist, leaning in, his lips pressing close, just above Sam's carotid artery. They felt soft and warm, stroking over Sam’s sensitive skin as he spoke. "If you join me."

Sam shivered, entirely stupefied, his jeans suddenly a bit too tight when Dean's hand slid down to cup his ass through the denim. Language abilities seemed to elude him as well, and all he could voice was a broken, guttural sigh as Dean kept whispering against his skin. "You are such a pretty thing, strong, intelligent, and weird and nerdy in the best ways." The hand on Sam's ass now moved slowly past his waistband, "you can't imagine what I felt when I was looking at your files, it was like looking into a mirror."

It was hard to tell if Dean was drunk or not with Sam's muddy state of mind, but the intervals between Dean's responses were stretched, allowing more messy tapping of the raindrops to flood in.

He took the time to recollect on Dean's words, remembering his time in college, and the alienation with John after the fight. It was on the night that he was packing for his new life, the same night he left his past behind and decided to never look back. Dean's mouth was still on his neck, sucking and nipping, like a mantra that kept him longing, wanting for something he had been bereft of his whole life. He tipped his head back to give the other better access, as every image he could conjure up about his past merged into a colorless hodgepodge and then wiped clean by a strong wave of pleasure when the mobster's hand trailed up under his shirt and pinched his nipple.

"So what college?" Gasped Sam, squirming in an attempt to loosen the strain over his crotch.

"What about college?"

"You said 'looking into a mirror', so I'm just assuming you went to Stanford as well." Sam drawled.

Smiling coyly, he took advantage when Dean was still processing what he just said as he climbed on top of the mobster with his thighs astride, and Dean subconsciously rocked his hips in a languid thrust. Back arching, Sam moaned, legs clamping down around Dean's firm waist as the other's erection nudged against his hole through the fabrics of their pants.

"Bragging is a bad color on you, Sammy." Pushing up, Dean sucked a mark onto his collarbone.

"Fuck." He breathed, "that goddamn mouth of yours."

"Move to the bed?" Dean mumbled against his throat.

"Not today," Sam was grinding down onto the other involuntarily, muscles on his back tense as he chased the seemingly near release. "Not when I'm drunk."

"What do you want now?" Dean's hands proceeded to Sam's waist, adding pressure to ram the taller man's lean body against him.

"This." His legs shook, unable to support his weight with the rough friction. "This." He repeated, smashing his mouth and Dean's together to muffle his own cries.

Their kiss was fierce, with teeth and sloppy exchanges of saliva, a sheer sheen lingered on Sam's bottom lip when they parted for air. The mobster maintained his grip on Sam's ass, kneading his cheeks, the sweet pull on the sensitive skin around his hole elicited couple of wrecked moans from him, and he was close, fingers pointlessly clutching the back of Dean's shirt with the overloading pleasure.

Hoarse groans overwhelmed the sound of falling rain, the couch squeaked, and the light radiating from the lamp on Sam's side table wavered with their movement. A high pitched whimper got squeezed out of his throat as he came, his body convulsed, limbs tightened around Dean simultaneously. He fell into the other's embrace, letting Dean use his limp body for his own pleasure. Dean bucked up desperately a few times before he came in his pants.

"Damn." The mobster gasped.

Sam wasn't paying attention, his mind was elsewhere, meditating on the apathy that haunted him incessantly and resolutely. He felt like an addict hooked on dopamine and adrenaline, and when those two things were depleted, he became a mere husk driven by animalistic desires, futilely scraping for another dose of his special effervescence.

"No matter what I do, it's all just... just tasteless. So you think that I'm adding spice, but in fact I'm just doing the regular seasoning." He heard a familiar voice mutter. The person under him looked up with a confused frown, then he realized that the voice was coming from himself.

*

The building owned by Dick Roman was interestingly not as intimidating as skyscrapers in metropolis where they seemed to be some kind of mutated plant that grew out of the earth, trembling with each breath of the world. It had only seven stories with limited amount of reflective surfaces. Apart from the tie around his shirt collar was a bit too tight and uncomfortable because of his dis-acquaintance with the feeling, Sam himself could even be convinced that he was a part of the firm. He walked with his back straight and his expressions amiable, smiling to every person strolling his way. 

But he did leave the blonde wig at home, much to Dean’s displeasure.

It was supposed to be an easy job, the security cameras they hacked earlier showed Dick Roman heading out first thing in the morning, presumably to attend some business meeting, and his secretary was walking in stilettos right next to him. By the time Sam was waiting for the elevator, there was no one on the top floor that the safe was placed. But there was a shallow pool of wariness sizzling in the bottom of his stomach. It was a little too easy, too smooth, for he had learned that Dick was a meticulous and sly businessman who would often go far down the road of paranoia. However in spite of his qualms, he arrived at the top floor. After carefully checking his surroundings, he went straight for the safe.

Dick's office was one of the secret rooms. Hiding behind a bookcase, the room was scrupulously carpeted, thick material absorbing Sam's footsteps and the various sounds from the streets were neatly cut off by closed windows. It wasn't difficult for Sam to tell that the windows were made of bulletproof glasses. He shook his head, trying to shake off the presentiment clawing at his insides. 

The safe itself was a popular choice for most companies, which only took him less than twenty minutes to crack. But the hard part was to sift through useless information and locate the files Dean asked for. The business plan was lying blatantly on top of everything, but not so much for the bearer bonds. After going through piled papers thick enough to make Lord of the Rings series feel ashamed, he gave up and went to inspect the safe's compartmentalization instead. There was a slit at the safe's bottom that turned out to be the only space between the bottom plate and the outer steel shell where the bonds' certificates were sandwiched.

"Son of a bitch." He cursed on top of his breath as his sight trailed to underneath the safe, which was now moved a bit left to reveal a discontinuation on the carpet, he frowned, pushing the safe entirely out of the way. 

It was a trapdoor. 

He pushed it down and something clicked, then the trapdoor popped open without a hitch. A folder looking relatively new was at the bottom of the space, he took it out and opened the cover. Dean's photo was the first thing he saw. It was a photo taken for military enlistment. Sam’s heart sank, apparently Dick already knew that Dean was onto him. 

The Dean in this photo seemed young, but had the same smile and gleaming green eyes reflecting the cold-toned lights in the photo room. He kept on reading and learned that after a short period of training, Dean quickly got kicked out of the army due to some "violent confrontation". 

"Always the reprobate, huh." He muttered to the photo. 

He stopped abruptly. What if Dean didn't want him to see it? Even though he offered to show Sam files, that didn't equal to giving Sam free permission whenever opportunities came along. Rationally, Sam should probably read it, for he needed to get a better knowledge on this self-proclaimed mobster. But at the same time Sam felt unwilling to abrade the fragile trust he just built with Dean. He closed the folder and shoved it into his bag along with all the wanted documents.

Putting the safe back to its place and wiping clean surfaces that he could potentially leave fingerprints on, Sam hurried out the airtight office. He took the elevator to descend one level as there was no staircase leading up to the top floor, then slid into the closest stairwell. It was safer that way if no one saw him coming down from Dick's office floor.

He felt he could finally breathe once getting back onto the busy streets. Just when was taking a turn at the intersection toward their designated meet-up location, he spotted a suspicious figure from the corner of his eye, it was a man wearing an inconspicuous worn jacket and keeping his head low to hide his features with the collar. 

Sam was tailed.

It would be stupid to stick to their plan as it would disclose Dean's identity, but he couldn't exactly go back home either. Sam slowed down, sneaking glances at the person following him in every shop window’s reflection. The man wasn't as tall as Sam, and neither was he outrageously strong. Sam had a good chance of winning. 

Picking up his pace, Sam eyed a back alley not far from him that was near their meet-up spot, this was it. He strode determinedly as his shadow followed closely, passing sauntering pedestrians like a programmed pawn in a sea of randomly swimming cogs. 

Merely three seconds into the alley, he heard a muffled bang behind him. He flinched, quickly ducking his head and turning around. His stalker was on the ground, the hole on his temple oozing blood as the limp body convulsed weakly. The bullet must have bruised some nerve. 

"So, you must be Sam." It was not until then Sam became aware of another person at the scene. She looked barely old enough for college, curly blonde hair falling casually over her shoulders as she flipped a knife between her fingers. 

"Um, yes?" 

"Dean won't shut up about you." She complains, sheathing the knife. "I'm Jo."

"Good to meet you, I guess." He said, eyeing the now stilled body.

"Let's go." Jo turned, her hair cascading, a texture akin to flowing water. "Boss is waiting."


	4. Don’t fear the old timers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta’d by Dnjungle, who also writes awesome fics

Dean was leaning against the Impala and folding his arms, basking himself and his beloved car in the golden autumn sunlight. There was a necklace hanging loosely around his neck, metal pendant shining in contrast to the black leather string. From under the short sleeves of the dark blue T-shirt Dean was wearing, edges of some inky tattoo patterns peeked out. Sam wondered for a moment what the tattoos were about, would they tell him more about the mobster? Would they reveal some secrets their owner sought to conceal? Since Sam had made up his mind on not perusing Dean's files that now lay peacefully in his bag, his curiosity spiked.

Jo was walking in front of him, oblivious to his thoughts. Her steps were blithe, as if she was a kid that had just built her first sand castle and on her way to share the big news with her proud parents.

Seeing Sam and Jo approaching, Dean waved, in a rather high-spiritedly manner. Arms flexing, he pushed himself up, squinting as he gave Sam a once-over, no doubt enjoying the way the suit of his choice looked on Sam, and a stupid grin blossomed over Dean's sharp features after the inspection. Dean needed to know that he sucked at hiding his intentions, Sam thought, he was a mobster for fuck's sake. So in a weak attempt at delivering his point, Sam held the other's gaze and winked.

"Hey boss, don't do that eye thing when I'm still here!" Jo protested.

"What eye thing?" Two voices rang unanimously. Sam thinned his lips as he looked at Dean, challenging.

"You look like I stole your line or something." Said Dean smugly, who was probably counting on Sam to feel that way, which, unfortunately, Sam did.

Jo came to a halt, eyes scrutinizing while taking them in. "Get a room, you two."

In an instant, Sam's mind rushed to last night, which had become a jumbled memory under the alcoholic influence, but one thing he could recall was the sensation of Dean's hard-on against his perineum. Even with both of them fully clad, Sam could remember the excitement - physically and mentally - it incited. He hadn't done it with a guy for years since he had moved to this not exactly open-minded town. But the thing was, he didn't feel the urge either. He could take care of himself just right and the thought of establishing a more stable relationship, even when that relationship could stay purely material, was making him on edge, fidgeting and uncertain. He knew he wasn't carved out for intimacy, realized it maybe even before Jess, and if Dean was like him, neither did the mobster. And he felt somewhat hopeful in that sense.

"I say let's leave that discussion to adults here, what do you say, Jo?" Dean seemed to be a bit aloof, eyes drifting as he raised his hand, gesturing for the assassin's dismissal.

"I didn't really drive my car here." Jo shrugged helplessly, "You expect me to walk back after saving your man?"

Just when Sam was about to deny the "your man" part, Dean chimed in. "My bad. Get in the car, kiddo."

That left Sam frozen in a middle of a half-formed sentence, but to make himself look less stupid, he resorted to clear his throat. Dean turned to him after Jo had settled comfortably in the backseat, immediately noticing the inconsistency in his actions.

"I sent her there, so, technically it's still me that saved you." A complacent looking Dean shrugged where Jo couldn't see him.

"I've guessed." Said Sam, avoiding the fact that he could have taken that guy down even without their help in hopes of putting the other two's childish rivalry to an end.

"Don't get too worked up with her words, you'll get used to it, you know." The mobster was sporting a fond expression, "She's like a sister to me. The annoying type, though."

Sam flashed a small smile, and shook his head. 

"Hey, um... You were thinking about last night just now, right?" Dean asked with a self-conscious frown.

"Yup." He bit out before he could stem himself. Regret seized him right away and he quickly amended, "I mean... " Failing to summon up proper words, and unable to construct the bland vocabulary available to him into a comprehensible sentence. Sam waved his hand in an equivocal fashion. It didn't matter how thoroughly he thought it through on the inside, suddenly being candid about his feelings after all those years of semi-solitude was strange. He swallowed, as though it would help him take back all the discombobulated and overly honest words that were trying to rush out. 

"Maybe we should just, leave it be?" Dean proposed, carefully. "We don't have to change anything." There was some degree of hope etched in his tone.

"Right. Okay. Let's." He nodded his affirmation.

"And let's get back on the road before she can come up with more questions." Directing his thumb at the Impala, Dean's arms flexed, muscles underneath his skin tensed and relaxed. Sam's sight trailed them, eyeing those darker shapes' mild distortion with the movement, and he could see that the ink had a long time diffusing into Dean's skin.

"‘Kay." He ducked his head when he became aware of his fixated gaze. Dean wasn’t paying attention, the mobster seemed to be mulling over something, eyes focused on a spot of dirt clinging to Impala’s hood. Seconds later saw Sam sliding into the passenger's seat, his eyes meeting Jo's in the rear-view mirror for a brief moment.

*

They pulled over at the foot of a new apartment building that had shiny floor-to-ceiling windows and a spacious lobby. Jo stepped out of the car, saluted them and took off, disappearing into the building, the knife she was toying with nowhere to be seen.

"Alright." Said Dean, turning down the volume of some classic rock music blasting out from the radio. "Show me what you've got?" The signature smirk was there.

"Sure." He flattened the bag onto his lap, "but there's something I need to know first."

"Ask away."

"Are you expanding your business, or are you trying to get it back?" 

"What do you mean?" Dean probed. The caution in his voice a hint of clear knowledge of what Sam was implying, but Dean seemed unwilling to take the bait.

"What I'm saying is, with all this competition you have with Dick and I wonder... is he taking over your market?"

Dean folded his arms, his stance deflating a little when he struggled to stare at anything that was not Sam. Sam waited. A while later, Dean sighed, raising his head defeatedly. "Dude came out of nowhere, and became stripper of the year in no time."

Sam snorted at the metaphor. "Have you looked into him? Like who he is, where he's from, and what does he want, that sort of thing?"

"Man, you know I tried." Dean ran a hand through his short hair. Sam's recalcitrant eyes hungrily followed the movement, his mind distracted as he pondered how would Dean's spiky hair and stubble feel on his thighs. "All I've been able to dig out is that Dick has been a businessman for... forever, and he had a run-in with Kansas City mob a few years back that didn't end on a good note. Actually he had been dormant for a good three years before only months ago when his expansion began."

Checking himself, Sam's head raced to digest what Dean just said. "Um. But he's been running the laundering business even before I came here."

"That was his only business at the time. Dick moved here after the Kansas mob thing." 

"So clearly something has changed for him in the last couple of months." Sam concluded, "And that's what we need to figure out."

Instead of answering, Dean maneuvered his car back onto the road, in the low satisfying hum of the engine, corners of his eyes wrinkling as he smiled.

"What?" Sam pressed.

"You said 'we'." The smile was still extant on the mobster's face, washing off the wariness and perturbation there earlier. "And we, are going to talk about it at my place."

"Talk about what?" 

"Your taking up my offer."

Incredulous, Sam rolled his eyes with restrained sarcasm and fell back in his seat, knowing that there was no way of circumventing Dean's obstinance. But a small part of him was almost glad at the notion, fluttering in celebration of his would-be abandoned boredom.

*

"Oh my god, can your house be more boring?" Sam awed at the generic one-story house overlooking the lake, which, was more a small pool of water than what people would usually perceive as something that could be called a lake. The place was far from Sam's imagination where Dean lived in some kind of mansion and had tons of security guards rushing around to insure their boss's well-being. 

"Not what you were expecting?" Dean sounded amused, and was answered with Sam's cocked brow.

They got off the Impala and proceeded toward the house. In its vicinity, fallen leaves of different trees carpeted the ground with a spectrum of colors from light green to crisp red-orange, some of them crackling as they walked over. 

Judging by the motionless air within the house, all windows were shut, and the minimal decor on the interior was reminiscent of Sam's impression of a fugitive. As Sam was imbued with the quietness, Dean kicked off his shoes and threw himself onto the puffy couch with a muffled bang.

"You don't have security here?" He went to sit at the foot of the couch where Dean sprawled after slipping out of his worn boots.

"I mean, I should. But that also means sacrificing my privacy, so no thank you." The mobster paused a second, "wait, are you worried?"

"Nope." He pulled the files from Dick's safe out of his bag, trying to distract his subconscious from betraying his sardonic tone. 

"Relax, Sammy. I can hold my own in a fight." Dean smiled reassuringly, reaching for the files in Sam's lap. "Now, let's take a look at them." His fingers brushed against Sam's right thigh in the process.

Sam's sight immediately dropped, tracing the hand's movement, but Dean seemed to be entirely absorbed in his examination of those pieces of paper. 

"Ha. That's right, the club... " Dean now had moved on to the business plan, nose deep in the pamphlet-like assembly of drafts and brief reports. Another page turned as Dean cursed on top of his breath. "This is just peachy. Dude... How the hell does the bastard have the floor plans of my base?" 

"And there's--" Before Sam could finish, the other opened the last folder. From the way Dean's brows shot up his forehead, it was just as unsettling as it was to Sam. "That. That was in a friggin' hole on the floor under the safe." 

"Did you read it?" The mobster asked nonchalantly. But Sam knew better not to take the liberty to consider that as a positive sign.

"Just the first page." He lowered his head in a fit of guilt as Dean studied his expressions. "And the photo." 

Dean rested his chin on one of the cushions, his green eyes thoughtfully flitting across the living room, lingering on some nonexistent spots in mid-air. "I need you to run the club I got from Dick. Here, take this." 

It was the bearer bond certificate of the club.

"Wait, Dean." He stuttered, yet his hesitation wasn't stemmed from timidity, but a concern that was not directed toward himself. "Don't you think it's a little, whimsical?"

"No. I trust you to do this." 

It's no doubt that the job would be dangerous, and any sensible person would turn down the offer. But Sam couldn't stop thinking that there was some kind of hidden connection - almost the kind of meaning that everybody searched for in life - to all of this, even though he didn't believe in one bit of those somewhat religious experiences some people pictured to convince others the existence of a higher purpose. He inwardly mocked his emotional desire for transcendence despite his rational rejection to it. 

"Alright." He snatched the piece of paper from Dean's hand as he stood up. 

"You should take the rest of the day off. The new job starts tomorrow." Dean sat up, "And by all means, you are welcome to any clothes in my closet. We should be about the same size."

Sparing another glance at Dean's arms and relatively broader shoulders, Sam bit the inside of his mouth while thinning his lips into a tight, envious smile. He blinked twice at Dean, exasperated, watching the latter unabashedly lick his lips. That asshole, wanting to doll him up every chance he got.

*

He quit his motel job on the phone that afternoon when Dean was driving him back. And as they were approaching their destination, Dean disclosed the fact that the old owner of the club was "taken care of", assuring Sam that there was no need to worry about potential complications. Dean sounded like he was talking about weather. 

It was strange seeing his trailer again, the bulky vehicle stayed inanimate, even dirt streaks on its surface remained the same, indicating the short time interval between Dean's visits. They woke up tangled together on Sam's couch this morning, with different degrees of stiff muscles and hangover. It took two full cups of black coffee to wash down his nagging migraine. Dean wasn't any better, but the mobster seemed unbothered as well, which made Sam wonder if the other had just as many bad nights as Sam had that could be only watered down by alcohol.

"Do cops know that there's one more dead body out there?" He couldn't help but blurt out, feeling obligated to be the conscience of their line of business.

"Well they probably don't." Leaning back, Dean slung his arm on the back of Sam's seat. "Jo always does a discreet job, and even if rest of the gang found out, they couldn't really call the cops."

"Tell me about it." He ran a hand through his hair. 

"Always the lawyer." Dean laughed fondly, and stuck out his cheek as Sam went to grab the door handle. "No kiss goodbye?"

"In your dreams." He batted the hand reaching for his ass away while he was in the process of getting out, with one foot on the solid ground and his upper body bending down. Finally Dean gave up after a few unsuccessful tryouts. 

On his way to the trailer, he turned to wave at Dean. Although he hated to use the hackneyed description, but something in his chest did flutter when Dean looked at him with a kind of sincere admiration and a hazy melancholic desire in his eyes.

*

He took a deep breath before stepping over the threshold. The club was located in the transition area between the city and its suburbs, with a huge parking lot and a region-typical tedious looking exterior, however, in direct contrast was its modern inside, sleek designs and on-point decor marked its prominence. It was just past noon, and there were only a handful of employees mopping the floor, a row of bar stools was put upside down on the counter, long frames extending all the way toward the ceiling. 

"Nervous yet?" His company asked.

"Not really." He answered curtly. 

Dean had introduced Sam to his head of security this morning. Guy's name was Benny, who seemed to be a bit older than Dean, but the amount of muscles he carried around was in great disproportion to the guy's agility. Unlike Jo, Benny seemed to be a reliable person that could be trusted with making his own decisions, and that judgment was proved when Dean said that he and Benny had "a history". From the look Benny gave in response to that phrase, Sam knew that history involved a fair share of blood and violence. 

Noticing their approaching, those employees merely nodded, mostly impervious to the fact that they had gotten a new boss in less than a week. 

"As long as they get paid, who sits in the office doesn't concern them." Sensing his dismay, Benny explained.

"It's good that they are not from Dick's gang." He agreed, proceeding to the office on the second floor that had a glass window with blinds looking down onto the dance floor.

The entire afternoon was spent sorting out the files and documents piling on the huge shelf in that office, its former dweller clearly wasn't equipped with a sense of tidiness. It wasn't until the club opened for business that night that they were able to wrap up the work.

"Hey Sam, I'm gonna stretch my limbs a bit outside. You gonna manage on your own?" His whole office was vibrating with the loud music on the dance floor, and Benny's low voice seemed to mingle with it, generating an air of surrealness, like something that would happen in a dream.

"Sure. Go ahead." He moved his head, feeling the grip of reality once again, then he went back to sorting the last pile of paper.

It seemed a long time had passed before he caught footsteps somewhere near the door, but the deadened music was still playing the tunes from the same track when Benny went out.

"Check out the new player, Sam, right?" An unfamiliar voice reached his ears as he stood up and turned abruptly to face the intruder. The guy was about the same body figure as Benny, but he adopted a stance that Sam only saw on people who just got released from prison.

Sam folded his arms and straightened his back, as he knew that would give him some height advantage over the other. "And you are?"

"Edgar. Nice to meet you." Edgar cleared his throat, "I'll just get to the point, Sam. We both know you are on the wrong side. Dean's long-winded family business should long be kicked out the game. No matter how much money he inherited from his parents, you gotta admit he ain't carved out for this line of work."

"And I should believe that you are?" He cocked a brow, exacting.

"Oh, you better be." Edgar's tone was unwavering, "Dick has me back now, and I'm more than willing to hold onto this fresh air that I've been enjoying for the last two months. You can say I'm very motivated."

"Good for you." He shrugged.

"Think, Sam. It's still not too late to change side." The intruder left before Sam had the time to trick more information out of him.

As if hit by lightning when something clicked in his head, Sam sifted for his phone through pieces of paper, and dialed the number that had long been saved to his contact since the fancy dinner.

It went through on the third beep. "Sam?" A questioning tone. Sam realized this was the first time he called the mobster.

"Hey Dean, I think I might just have figured out why Dick started expanding two months ago."


	5. Midnight & Morning Specials

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a mix of smut and existential crisis, let me know if it’s a fun one ;)
> 
> Beta’d by the one and only Dnjungle

Although having insisted on meeting Dean the next day, the Impala was the first thing Sam saw walking out of the club at half past two in the morning. Stars spangled the moonless sky, the closed off club was drenched in darkness as all employees had left for their homes. Benny went directly for his motorcycle, knocking the Impala's hood twice in a salute before driving off into the night. And then it was just him and Dean now, together swallowed up by the vacuous, unbounded homogeneity that was the night. Under the feeble lights of those stars, Sam knew Dean's gaze was on him, pupils dilated to adjust to the dimness. And in his mind, those eyes were glinting.

He stood there for a moment, on the porch, absorbed in his thoughts that had been brought about by his exhaustion and the absolute quietness after midnight. Away from the city, he could almost feel his mind unwrapping and extending, filling the space that had yet to be occupied by the high-rises, the two of them unbending as time seemed to slow. It felt like civilization could be annihilated in a millisecond just as it would fade away after millions of years, and the spirits would be burned, flesh charred, but at the end him and Dean would still be here, becoming an ineffaceable mark in universe's history.

Dean waited. There was no sound coming out of the car.

His thoughts were still wandering even when his limbs started moving, carrying him to the sleek black vehicle. Dean opened the door for him, the sudden jerk finally yanked his mind back into his body. 

"What's on your mind?" Dean asked, the texture of his voice akin to cold syrup.

"The stars." Sam answered without thinking.

"Do you know the starlight we are seeing right now is actually from thousands of years ago?" Melancholy seeped out of Dean's words as his index finger traced those remote bright spots from within the windshield, the spots seemed to be wavering with tremors in outer space.

"Some of them may have already died out." Sam said, equally seized by some kind of inexplicable sadness. Maybe it was caused by the sense of powerlessness of grasping the meaning of existence, or maybe he was just a freak. He frowned at the stars. If everything had an expiration date, why should the transitory human life weigh anything at all? And if his self-consciousness was given without his consent, why should he fight and struggle, just to endow something he didn't even accept with a significance?

Dean started the car. The road was smooth and there was little noise as Dean sped up, the Impala rushing over monstrous shapes of trees and shrubs' shadows on the roadside. Gradually, Sam went to rest his head against the window, his wakeful mind slowly sliding under the surface of consciousness.

*

He blinked awake to a hand combing through his hair. Dean was studying him, eyes intent and focused in the darkness. As if mesmerized, he blinked again, staring back with a kind of avidity, or a silent plea for something he had yet to recognize. It was still dark out, and everything was graced with a dreamlike feature that vanished the impossible. 

Dean's palm trailed down the nape of neck, fingers light and cautious, as though the risk of waking Sam was still present.

"How long was I out?" He heard himself ask. Those fingers touched his lips before retreating, and he could tell they desired to stay. 

"Twenty minutes." 

He looked out the windshield to find Dean's lake side house. "It's not my place."

"Figured you could use a real bed for a change." Dean's voice was barely discernible, less than a whisper.

Dean led him through the door and into the bedroom, a hand always on the small of his back as he followed in a heady blurry. The bedroom smelled faintly of cedar, mixed with some earthy scents that Sam couldn't pinpoint. He let Dean help him out of his jacket and the dark blue shirt he borrowed from the other, and he undid his own pants and stepped out of them with only his boxers and a thin T-shirt on. As he was lying down onto the soft mattress, a string of anxiety gripped him. 

"About Dick--"

"Shh, you can tell me all about it the next morning." Hushed Dean, joining him in bed as the other side of the mattress dipped a little.

*

Within the warmth of the blanket he and Dean shared, there was a hand on his bare waist where his T-shirt had gotten hitched up during the night, and the palm was now gently rubbing up and down his side as he became aware of his surroundings. They were in Dean's room, the curtains were shut, but sunlight pierced through the fabric like it was concreted into a number of golden spears. Before he could say anything, a tingling need climbed up his spine out of nowhere and made him squirm a little. Immediately he realized that he was hard, the elastic band of his boxers straining his cock almost to the point of pain. And as Dean wormed closer and warm exhales landed directly on the nape of his neck where all the sensitive nerve endings located, his hole clenched involuntarily. 

Then Dean's hot lips were on the place that was just caressed by his wet breaths moments ago, leaving open-mouthed kisses and small bites. Sam moaned with his eye lids half closed, lips forming a round shape while more sounds leaked out when Dean continued to suck on his neck, the small area of tender skin would for sure turn into a hickey sometime later.

Dean snaked an arm around his waist and abruptly pulled his body back to press against the mobster's chest, he yelped at the unexpected force and the rough movement. He could feel a blunt, stiff heat pushing against his ass, and the hand had roamed dangerously low to play with the hem of his boxers, circling on the edge as fingers ghosted over the tip of his still clothed cock. 

He ground back uncontrollably, feeling the hard length of the other's slipped between his ass cheeks through their underwear. Then those dry, warm hands pushed down his boxers to just below the globes of his ass, grabbing the meaty flesh in the process and finally freeing his nearly dripping cock. 

"Dean..." He sighed when he was encountered with the sudden loss of another person's body heat.

Seconds later, he felt the mattress dip just before Dean pounced on him to wrap a hand around Sam's cock hungrily and started moving, thumbing the slit and smearing precum all over the length. Sam let out a string of broken moans along the strokes, his whole body shivered and the moans seemed to shake with it, his eyes unfocused, stomach tense and trembling, each slight movement ridden with pleasure as Dean's hand was still attached to his aching dick. He hadn't done this for so long that each and every touch set him on fire, and it seemed that Dean wasn't exaggerating when he claimed to know Sam well because much to Sam's embarrassment, as someone who often left the impression of a dominant person, he indeed, had a penchant for being roughly manhandled in bed.

When a slicked finger breached him, he was already at the brink of coming apart. Dean seemed to notice it as well, and removed the hand stroking Sam's cock and turned his attention solely on opening Sam up from behind, soon it was three fingers up his squelching ass as Dean intentionally ignored his prostate to stave off his climax, denying him the relief. Sam was close to being reduced to a sobbing mess at this point, bucking his hips up in vein, searching for a minuscule of friction to release himself from the torture.

"Fuck, Dean, that's enough." His breath was heavy and his voice coarse from all the moaning and grunting. "Don't be a jerk."

Dean flipped him onto his back, dragging his boxers entirely out of the way. Freed from the last constraint, Sam opened his legs invitingly. Dean swallowed hard and sat back a bit to wriggle out of his clothes. Discarding his cotton T-shirt onto the floor, inky patterns covering Dean's upper arms were now on full display. Sam could see an angel with wings unfolded on the right side, halo around the angel's head certainly had taken the artist a while to tend to the intricate details of each emanating ray of light, and on his left arm there were supposedly flames of hell with a handprint on top of the bicep area. To finish off the whole picture, a pentagram clung to the skin above his chest and below the collarbones. Dean either didn't pay attention to his inspection or just didn't want to distract himself from Sam's ass.

He huffed when he saw Dean reaching underneath the pillow to grab a condom, "dude, you slept on that all night?"

"Well..." Dean shrugged before rolling it on. Sam watched, wondering how many people before him had seen the exact same scene.

But quickly his mind quit pondering the question, for Dean had lined himself up and began pushing in within a handful of seconds, the stretch on the verge of painful and the burn made them both groan.

"Fuck." He cursed again, worrying his bottom lip when Dean resumed the motion. But at the same time he was attacked by a wave of pleasure, hitting him hard enough to elicit a cry as he wriggled helplessly, only to take the other's cock deeper into him. His brain must have confused the sting with pleasant stimulations. Dean leaned down to suck the soft skin around his Adam's apple, his eyes rolled back, thighs clenched tight around Dean's middle.

"Woah. You really like being held down and forced to take it huh?" Dean snapped his hips forward and nailed Sam's prostate, squeezed out another cry as he gradually established a rhythm. At the same time his hands found Sam's wrists and pinned them down hard, all the while kept snapping his hips forward, and Sam's head was a hair from barging into the headboard.

Sam groaned, all he could think of was that there would be a pair of finger-shaped marks on his wrists for days and everyone would know that he was getting it, being pressed against the bed helplessly and that idea was turning him on more than he could ever imagine. His dick twitched, but without any contact the reddened cock was caught between their bellies, leaking precum onto the tensed muscles underneath.

Dean did nothing to ease the situation, instead he slammed into Sam's pliant body with a kind of erratic fervor. In between moans and the sound of flesh slapping, Sam thought absentmindedly that he could probably not be able to walk properly later. Dean came after some time, grunting as his hot breath hit one side of Sam's nipple. Just when he was about to protest that there was still one hard person in the room, Dean pulled out and started moving down, he pushed Sam's legs up even more and went straight for the puffy ring of muscles. The feeling of the other's newly grew stubble on Sam's sensitive skin and the tongue that was lapping at his entrance made him close his legs around Dean's head, the short hair against his thighs felt exactly like he imagined. Yet those thighs were quickly yanked open to give the other better access, his fingers were clutching at the sheets like they were the last resort he had to anchor himself in waves of pleasure. He came with Dean's mouth over his dick and fingers stuffed deep in his ass.

"Shit. It's like I can't close them." Sam let his legs fall, limply on each side, knowing the gesture would reveal his abused hole but he couldn't care less. 

"Lemme see them." Dean signaled for his wrists where a pair of symmetrical red marks resided. 

"It's okay." He pulled back and winced when he tried to push himself into a sitting position. Immediately he checked Dean's expressions, finding the smirk there as predicted. "I knew it." He cracked a laugh, and Dean laughed with him.

*

They showered and went back to bed and stayed for the next hour, scrolling though Dean's tablet for news and gossips that Dean strongly suggested because he believed that they needed a "breather" from all the crime news Sam had been going over for the first three quarters. 

As though being slapped in the face, Dean straightened his back and his eyes trailed to somewhere that should be behind the bedroom wall. The next moment he was already half way out of bed, sauntering toward the door. Sam watched him, both intrigued and bemused, following the smooth, shifting line of shadows between the two planes of muscles on Dean's back. The tattoos enclosing his entire upper arms gave out a sense of mysteriousness from Sam's angle - like a deliberately unfinished painting that was provocative and enticing, yet at the same time an implication of its creator's outlandish mentality.

Dean appeared at the door after some rummaging, in the bedroom Sam could hear one or two drawers getting pulled open then pushed close. There was a folder in his hands. 

"What's that?"

"Everything about me is in here." Dean raised his hands, showcasing those pieces of yellowing paper. "All yours now." Walking over, he put it onto Sam's lap.

He was in the middle of opening the first page when he stopped. "You know what? I trust you not to lie to me."

Dean didn't answer, just looked at him with an unreadable expression. 

"Do you think you worth it?" He met Dean's eyes.

"I did. And I do." His features changed and evolved into a sincerity that Sam didn't know the mobster was capable of. In his head, he pictured Dean to be a more taciturn person that grew up in a gang where genuine emotions were almost taboo-like. And in a way he envied the grace Dean possessed letting others know his feelings, as it required much courage that normal people sometimes couldn't even summon. He brushed the thought off to hide his momentary self-deprecation to himself, as he began talking, filling the other in on last night's incident.


	6. Safety Net

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam rethought his decision on joining the mob. Dick made some plans and Dean reacted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there’s a moderate amount of gore at the end of this chapter, please proceed with caution.
> 
> Thank Dnjungle for beta-ing! I know I suck most of the time, but thanks to you I suck a lot less!

He knew this nearly blind trust he had for Dean was dangerous. He knew he should've taken the file and looked through it, but to him it felt like breaking some kind of commitment, which was more so something he promised himself than what people might presume as an unspoken contract he had with Dean by showing trust to each other. 

Judging by Sam's past experience with people, Dean was either being honest and trusting Sam wholeheartedly or was just really good at manipulating others. And if to say it was the latter, for this long Dean had to slip somewhere, but he didn't and that was enough proof for Sam. There was just something about the mobster that extinguished his every last ounce of doubt, and it was liberating in a way too, as if there was always a safety net to catch him every time he was about to fall.

They were in the Impala again, with Dean behind the wheel, the two of them proceeding to the base that Dean mentioned the other day. Accompanied by the low humming of the vehicle, Dean began explaining to Sam how did the so-called base work. The base was where most decisions were made and where all the important documents were kept. To go along with that, the base was where for most of the times, dirt on some certain person was dug up. 

To Sam's amusement, the base located, quite literally, below ground level. As Dean was leading him down a flight of narrow stairs behind an Italian restaurant, his mind flew to a science fiction he had read years ago, in which the protagonist went down some hole like a "reverse tower" into the underground and wrestled an alien-like creature that infected her with something that ultimately made her part of the mutated landscape.* Like the protagonist, Sam was curious what kind of person he would be getting back up a while later. 

"It's kinda lame if you come to think about the fact that your HQ is under a family owned Italian restaurant." Sam teased.

"That's the whole point!" Dean lightly slapped his shoulders, "plus, have you tried the food? It's awesome."

"Maybe after we are done here?" He did love Italian food, and just the thought of it made his mouth water.

Dean smiled his stupid smile and blinked his affirmation, then as they finally descended to the bottom of the stairs, the base unfolded in front of him. The centerpiece of the room was a huge wooden table, atop of which were scattered folders and pieces of paper from notebooks that were scribbled all over with what must've been important information. 

Benny was there, and so was Jo, they seemed to get along as Benny carefully flipped a knife, earning an appreciative nod from the blonde. There were more people at the back where more rooms dwelled, Sam could see one or two people hurry by on and off.

"Hey kids." Dean beckoned them close, "got news for me?"

And that was the exact moment Benny and Jo's faces changed from insouciantly joking around to dead-serious, Sam inwardly flinched a bit seeing two very capable, highly-likely to have lives on hand people giving off that air of tension that was as fascinating as it was frightening, even when it wasn't directed at Sam. 

Dean put a hand loosely on the small of his back and nudged him forward, curbing his attempt of pulling back to include Sam in their supposedly private conversation. Jo showed no sign of vigilance while Benny took one look at them as they were both approaching and said nothing except an acknowledging hum.

"Now shoot." The four of them were almost chest to chest in a circle, hair brushing when he found Dean's tone changed as well. 

"We got a mole here." Jo crossed her arms, eyes tracing the backrooms probably where she perceived the mole to be at. 

"And that's how our floor plan got leaked." Benny added, his jaw clenched tight, shoulders tense.

Dean didn't speak, and in the moment of silent reflection, Sam's mind rushed to the realization that he was now a part of the whole thing, for good or for bad. That was also when he discovered in himself that he didn't want to back out, for this was the only chance he'd get to make his life mean something, anything as long as it was not a total blank, a complete void of emotions and feelings.

"Now we just need to find out who that is." The hand at the small of his back trailed lower, a finger hooked on the hem of his jeans as Dean began talking. "We don't have any new people here, is that right?" 

Jo and Benny nodded, Sam could see the cogs in their heads turning. "So Dick must have turned one against us." Said Benny.

"What would it take to compromise someone here?" Sam gestured around the bunker-like place, "I assume people you have here got higher confidentiality than those out there."

"Maybe they got something on someone." Jo proposed, both hands in her back pockets.

"Could be." Said Dean, "we'll figure it out. In the meantime, I need you to start laundering at the club. You know how to do it?" He turned to Sam, eyes inquiring.

"Yeah, sure." He was already on his way back up the stairs when a familiar set of arms on his hipbones stopped him.

"Not so soon." Catching up to him, Dean came up to murmur against the nape of his neck. A shiver ran down his spine. He turned, spotting a smirk, but at the edges of the other's quirked lips a kind of tensity laced. "Italian food first." 

*

He got to the club at five in the afternoon, mulling over what Dean had said to him during lunch. Dean told him to be careful of the people that were close to him at the club and to keep the laundering records entirely secret, which expelled everyone except for Dean and Sam from the details of the books. 

The weather was getting colder as winter started to creep in, sharp wind sweeping over the empty parking lot made him recoil in his jacket. 

People greeted him inside the club, but he returned none of them. Icy doubt grew like a wild vine and he could feel it drip venom along its way. The implications in Dean's words weighed heavy on him. Benny and Dean seemed almost like brothers, yet Dean's caution and distrust against the guy made Sam wonder if Dean's ostensible honesty with himself was just another act to make Sam his new puppet. Let alone the fact that Sam was just some rookie accidentally got caught in the heat of this game. He couldn't make out why despite having uncertainties about Benny, Dean still sent him here to help run the club with Sam. 

A small sardonic smile tugged at his lips as he remembered the thoughts he had descending down those stairs with Dean, because in a way he did come out a different person, someone that now had this mounting indecision every other second he spent in the club.

To numb the growing suspicion in his head, he sat in his office the whole night staring at a ledger that only had its first couple of pages filled with new records. But he kept his eyes on those thin lines, tuning out as muted dance music blasted in through the walls, a humming that made sitting alone in a dark office more like a dreamy trance than reality. When he put the ledger down to check the time, it was pushing midnight. He pictured the crowd going crazy down there with the rapidly sweeping lights and accelerating beats, then out of curiosity he went to stand by the glass separating him with the air above the dance floor.

Instantly he recognized the figure in the dead center of those people, the suit slightly reflective when the artificial lights hit. It was Dick Roman, right there in his club, and as if sensing Sam's eyes on him, he turned, the expensive suit wrinkling as its owner looked up, directly into Sam's probing stare.

"Shit." He muttered. Dick couldn't possibly see his lips moving, however those dead grey eyes flickered as their owner flashed his teeth in an apathetic smile. Sam yanked the blinds close. Which later he realized was probably the wrong move, but he couldn't blame himself for the momentary panic that was washing over him. 

His phone rang almost immediately as he was now utterly alone in the dark office, giving off a pale light that couldn't even reach the parameters of the table it was on. It was Dean.

He took a breath and picked it up. "Yes?"

"Sam, you okay?" A strained voice came through.

"I'm fine." He assured, "what happened?"

"Dick got one of ours killed. The kid was supposed to blackmail someone whose business we were gonna take over, now he's dead, and Dick got the business."

"Fuck." He rushed to open the window blinds, searching for small, reflective lights that could be coming off of Dick's suit, but Dick was long gone by now, probably having already accomplished his goal. "He was just here."

"What? Who?" Dean's voice rose, "Dick?"

"Yeah, guess he was making a point." He then thought about the kid that was likely to be dead in some back alley, body limp on the ground as the corpse started to stiffen, quietly awaiting its discovery. "Do you plan on getting back at them?"

"The hell I'm letting this slide! I just need some time to figure out how." After an audible sigh, Dean was again his sensible self. "Can you come by the base when you are done?"

"Of course." He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling more weary and tired than he ever remembered. "I'll bring coffee."

"Awesome. See you then."

*

In the after hours, the base felt empty when he stepped out of the staircase, glimpsing at those warm lights veiling the entire space. He sauntered to the centerpiece of the room, the coffee cups warm in his hands as he set them down. Footsteps echoed in the halls that lead to where he was standing, the sound grew louder in sync with almost intelligible inhales and exhales of Sam's breathes. 

Dean looked tired as well, his eyes lighting up as he saw the coffee cups. "Hell, man. Exactly what I need." He purposefully stepped behind Sam and reached around for the cup, his palm lingered on Sam's hipbone, thumb hitched higher to stroke the skin above.

Taking a step back, Sam watched the mobster gulping down half of the dark liquid, then his tongue darted out to swipe the last drop of coffee into his mouth. "I know where Edgar's cave is." Dean said. His face is blank, devoid of any emotions or hints that could give away his thoughts.

"And?" His instincts went off, alarms ringing in his head. He tried to keep a straight face.

"And he's gonna meet with his subordinates tomorrow." A sly smile emerged from Dean’s impassive features.

"What's on your mind?" Asked Sam, carefully.

"Guess Dick will have to pay for some caskets." Dean took another gulp of coffee, while the other cup stood forgotten on the table.

"Oh." Was all he could voice. He knew one day he would have to deal with piles of dead bodies, but he didn't expect when that day came the guilt was still too much for him to handle. And joining Dean on a whim was probably not a very bright idea no matter how much fun it looked at first. He stayed out of this life for a reason, and that reason was now beginning to reveal itself. 

He felt almost giddy in that moment, and it was only half from the sleep deprivation. Something in the back of his mind prompted that the look of blankness Dean had was likely to be a mixture of hunger for revenge and bloodlust. Which were the things Sam didn't necessarily have. Knowing people - even criminals - were going to be slaughtered was not the same as imagining it or seeing it on TV, especially when there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"Can I go?" He blurted, hoping that he may have a chance of getting fewer people killed if he was on scene. "Tomorrow?"

"You sure?" Dean smirked, clearly having doubts.

"Stop patronizing me! I'm pretty fucking sure."

Dean raised both of his hands to make an appeasing gesture, "okay, okay. Easy." 

Sam rolled his eyes with incredulity when his brain suddenly made out the weird smell he kept picking up within the base. "Wait, do I smell weed in here?"

The innocent look on Dean's face was apparently fake, and his shrug had too much force to it. 

"Jesus, are you high?" 

"I was, but just a little." Dean crossed his arms, "it helped me think."

"You dug out Edgar's address all by yourself?"

"A hundred percent. What were you thinking?"

"You got this whole base of people just to do things by yourself?"

"Well, it's not like I can trust them at this time." This time the innocent look seemed more authentic. "Oh and we got some rooms back there where you can crash for the night." Dean pointed at the hallway.

*

He stared at the storage units from across the street. Only storages that had their roller shutters open were the ones that were empty, even from a distance Sam could tell there was a thick layer of dirt piling for months. The unit at the end of the left row was the place Edgar and others would be.

Jo straight up brought a whole team there after receiving Dean's message in the morning, everyone geared up and holding some semi-automatics. Now they were hiding in one of the empty units on the right, hunched over and waiting, as they arrived half an hour earlier.

"Hey Sam, you might wanna stay in the car." Dean looked at the corner where their vehicles were parked. This time they drove a common Honda, the battered black car blended in perfectly with everything in this derelict part of town.

"Hell no. I'm coming with you." 

Just when Dean was about to say something - probably to put up a debate - he tilted his head and bit back whatever he was going to say. Sam knew that meant someone was speaking to Dean through the earpiece. 

"Shit, they are here early." Dean ducked his head to hide his face with the hood of the olive sweater he was wearing, the clothes baggy enough to allow him to hide some knives and the Glock Sam saw him cleaning couple of hours ago underneath. He jogged across the road and signaled for Sam to follow. They were at the other end of the storage units with no view of what was going on, and all he could hear was indiscernible conversations and a final click of the roller door shutting close. 

One, two... 

He counted, and decided to ask Dean if there was another way around this. He inhaled. "Dean--"

Gunshots vibrated in the air like raindrops in the center of a storm, empty bullet shells clattering to the ground, some of them bouncing back a few times, their sounds getting caught up in the loud gunshots echoing above the storage units. He clenched his teeth, struggling to ease the pain in his eardrums. Someone nearby must have already called the police considering the stir they created.

Suddenly, as if every and each sound were sucked out of this dimension, a vacuum-like quietness engulfed them, he didn't dare to move because he feared breaking the silence that felt like thin ice. 

"What were you trying to tell me?" He could see Dean yelling, but the sound was still muffled.

He shook his head, his legs moving on auto-pilot and bringing him to the site. The roller shutter was open, and there were numerous holes on the aluminum door. Bodies piled inside, and on the floor, blood was still flowing, some of the dark red liquid dripped down from an arm that probably had a tattoo on it, as the big hole in the ripped flesh made it difficult to tell. He moved a step forward, spotting more smeared blood and some small pieces of human flesh - again, undistinguishable for that everything was covered in thick, sticky blood - that reminded him of a smashed watermelon. On the walls were blood splatters in all directions, and some of those trajectories began bleeding with gravity working its magic.

Everything followed was a blur, and when he came back to himself, they were already in the Honda, heading back to the base. 

Sirens rang in the distance behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Yes, I’m talking about the Southern Reach Trilogy. They even made a movie about it, name’s Annihilation and it’s awesome just check it out if you love the sci-fi genre
> 
> Side note: I wrote most of this chapter listening to Oz. by MGK. As someone who’ve never had any experience with gangs, this song’s what I imagine it would be like (at least the ducking cops part) lol


	7. In search of a tipping point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares, entanglement and retaliation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, gore at the beginning and end of this chapter.  
> Needless to say Dnjungle beta’d this shit, I’m aware I’ve been a pain in your ass (no pun intended) so thanks, like, A LOT

His conscious mind expelled the memory of that storage unit, but when he slept, he saw Edgar's face - or, what was supposed to be Edgar's face. He saw the pummeled meat, with bottom half of its nose missing. Its right cheek was almost peeled off, which revealed broken teeth beneath, some knocked off entirely, and there were holes in the gum that wouldn't stop oozing blood. He dreamed of severed limbs, with bones visible, and of floor painted with small pieces of crumbled flesh.

It was difficult to look Dean in the eyes the next day.

He felt off-kilter, the trailer he called home for years now had become deserted, and a bunch of killers that he couldn't quite trust now became his friends. The ironic thing was, the life of being alone and bored seemed never existed, but he still remembered the way it felt, like extracting scenes from a burning dream, a dream that was being etched away from his memory because of some fault in the neurons. The meaning of life he had been searching for now seemed irrelevant, for the threat of death was as imminent as it was luring, like all dangers were - tempting fate, like a fight against creation. But he couldn't just leave everything behind, either. His heart desired answers, almost impulsively, required them like they were the only antidote to some kind of drug he couldn't yet name.

Dean wouldn't let him leave the base even when reminded of the fact that Dick most likely knew their location, and insisted that they had weapons down there to defend themselves. And the way the mobster acted around Sam, careful, as if he was struggling to balance some kind of slipping control, made Sam want to puke. 

Conversations were muffled by the door between the backroom Sam was in and the outside crowd, and he felt like dreaming again. In the half-sober blur, he lived through Edgar's last minute vicariously with physical pain tearing through his body. But the emptiness in his chest was being filled like never before, all the guilt, doubts, distrust and weariness dissipated as his mind narrowed in on the pain, as if it was the only thing that could wash off his sins. And he knew Dean was disappointed in him, in his inability of taking a side when people on both sides had their hands tainted with blood. The notion burdened him with extra guilt that made the pain even more addictive. It was so easy to give in to the sweet ache in his chest, let it become the only sense he could lose himself in, the only place he could still believe in the lie that all damage was still reversible.

They hadn't spoken for nearly twenty-four hours, and Dean never checked on him once. He had been locking himself in this room for most of the day, only going out for food and water. He didn't try to locate Dean, either. Because he wasn't sure if Dean would be able to give out answers he wanted to hear. And truthfully, he was too aware of how the business could change a person to actually buy anything placatory Dean might say.

As if the universe had a way of toying with people, a knock on his door halted his dissociating mind. 

"Sam?" Dean sounded worried.

"Yeah?" He summoned his best untroubled voice.

Dean pushed the door open, and it was hard not to notice the circles under his eyes. Sam looked away when he found himself staring. The noise outside the room was small, which meant others were probably scooped up around that wooden table, having lunch. Sam was sitting at the end of the bed as Dean sighed, walked over to gingerly sit down next to him.

He knew it was meaningless to press Dean for explanations, so instead, he inhaled. "I hoped we didn't have to do that. But it seemed it was too naive of me."

"And I shouldn't rush you into joining us in the first place." Dean's shoulder bumped his. "I was... lonely."

He wanted to joke about the possibility of Dean manipulating him, but thought better of it. "And I was bored."

"You know I was brought up this way, and what happened yesterday... it was the only way I know." Dean smoothed his thumb and index finger over his brows.

"I was in pre-law, you know that. Have you ever thought for one second that I might find a way to bring down Edgar, or even Dick?" He didn't raise his voice, but he was pissed. It was so easy to let anger take the place of his imaginary pain. But he realized instantly that it was as blindly hopeful as it was stupid, for not only his anger changed nothing, but it made him feel like a helpless kid again, the child that got angry at his drunk dad for neglecting his son.

"But how long would that take?" Dean swallowed, "we couldn't afford to wait."

"There's always gonna be another way." He insisted nonetheless. A weak attempt at holding his stance. 

"I'm sure there is. But you see, the thing is, I'm not sure if I want it. And I think if Dick had a choice, neither would he go down the less violent road. Sometimes it's either us or them." 

He acquiesced. Edgar's incomplete face emerged in his mind, the lifeless corpse's mouth - chapped, colorless - opened, and a string of unrecognizable words poured out, among which Sam could only pick up "you did this" being repeated like a curse that he couldn't run away from. It didn't matter how far his feet could bring him, as though he was stamped, tainted like everyone here in the base.

"I'm not sure if I want to be a part of this anymore." He said after a pensive moment.

"It's not about 'want', since Dick already knew you." Dean seemed to tumble on his own thoughts for a while, those plump lips opened, but no words came out. He swallowed again. "You are still too important to me. I meant every word I've ever said about you, and how I felt about you."

"I believe you, but you can't keep me here." He knew Dean was probably not doing it on purpose, but the sour taste of possible manipulation still propelled him to leave the base for that comfort of his own home.

"It's dangerous for you to be out there. I'm sorry but it's not gonna be negotiable."

"Oh yeah?" He mocked, unable to check himself for directing the guilt and anger at someone other than himself. "Are you so used to bossing people around that you don't know the boundaries anymore?"

Dean looked at him with disbelief, as if it was the first time somebody had defied him on issues like that. "Come on, Sam, I'm telling you this is the best for you."

"You are saying that you know my own interest better than I do?" He ran a hand through his hair, and laughed. "Fuck. It's like a scene from some flick."

Dean had a small smirk as well, but it soon died down as Sam began collecting his things. "Woah woah woah, hold on. What are you doing?"

"I can't be a part of this, Dean." He grabbed his backpack, striding toward the big room full of dining people. The base was slowly suffocating him, and he needed to be back in his trailer. The idea of drinking whiskey alone in the dim space seemed like the best catharsis he could have for now, and this need to be entirely alone made him hysterical as drinking by himself was what he would do when he felt utterly bored before meeting Dean.

"So you are just gonna leave? After all that happened?" Dean chased him down the hallway, his tone authoritative.

He hated the way Dean acted - like his drunk dad, trying to mess with other people's life even when they were so out of it themselves. But unlike before, this time he wasn't obligated to answer to Dean. He rolled his eyes, feeling in control for the first time under the threat of imposed command. "Yep." However, immediately after the liberating sensation, the word was cutting into himself as well when he realized that might be the end between them. Dean and Dick would destroy each other, he was sure of it. But he wouldn't be there for Dean when that happened, and the flighty word he threw freely at the other felt like some kind of farewell.

Feeling guilty, he took one final look at the mobster. Those glinting emerald eyes sported a kind of emotion that Sam feared to decipher, yet he knew, somehow, that the other wouldn't ask him to stay. In a twisted way, they really did understand each other, and deep down Sam's heart was already mourning the loss that he wasn't sure was metaphysical or physical. Without the pain, the anger, he felt empty yet again, there was this hole in his chest that only addictive substances could temporarily fill. He hated himself for seeking console in those things, but when adrenaline had waned off and wormed into blood and death, the only thing he could think of was the bottles of whiskey in his cupboard. The only permanent solution, a small voice sang in the back of head, was the sweet nothingness, the comfortable blur you didn't remember before you were born. He bit his bottom lip, he didn't have the constitution for suicide and nor could he handle a life like Dean's, so maybe the boredom was all it had to offer, and at this moment he would gladly take it up on the tediousness.

Jo greeted him when he showed up in the room that was connected to those stairs leading up to the ground, and he tightly smiled back. "Where are you going?" Jo asked him in a blithe tone.

"Just out." It was ridiculous but the guilt almost made him flinch, he could not carry home another person's disappointment.

"What? Don't you know it's not safe to--"

"Let him leave." Dean's voice appeared to freeze the air, letting Jo's sentence hang in the stirless medium. Sam was almost convinced that the hurt in those three words he managed to pick up was purely his delusion. The apprehension of tracing the origin of that voice pushed him forward, his worn backpack strap seemed to be cutting into the flesh on his right shoulder as he sprinted up the stairs, finally breaking into the daylight.

On the way to his van in the Italian restaurant's parking lot, he saw three black SUVs approaching unanimously in a low speed. He walked four more steps and those shiny dark hulks slid into a halt. From their positions, the backdoor leading to Dean's base should be in the center point of their view. And that made Sam suddenly on edge, his exhausted nerves being stretched impossibly thin, "shit, shit." He lowered his head and ran towards his van, thinking of the handgun hidden under the seat. Maybe it was nothing more than an overreaction, but the only thing on his mind was that he couldn't just turn his back on this. 

When he went to check on those SUVs, a bunch of dudes wearing clothes inconspicuous to the point of boring got out, and it was easy to spot the guns they carried knowing exactly where to look. He grabbed the handgun, simultaneously reached for his phone and called the number he became so familiar with.

"Sam?" It was clear that this call was unexpected.

And at the same moment, Dick stepped out of the last SUV, looking cocky as ever. Sam cursed in a whisper, which immediately alerted Dean.

"What's wrong?" 

"Dick's here, fucking right here, they are coming for you!" 

Dean hung up on him while yelling out some commands. His hands were shaking as he checked the handgun, its cartridge, hammer and safety. It couldn't happen again within two days, he thought, not on his watch. 

Carefully, he sneaked back to the corner of the building, right index finger hovering over the trigger, itching to lash out at Dick's crew but he knew he was no opponent to them. The only advantage he held over them was their unwittingness of his presence, and he intended to utilize every bit of it.

The shot fire began shortly after the intruders blasted off the backdoor. Sam's heart was sinking with every second of unremitting gunfire, the only console being the gunshots coming out from the bottom of the stairs. He stood there, leaning against the solid red-brick wall, counting his rapid breathes. It was hard to tell how long the open fire continued, but as soon as dead silence enclosed him in, he rushed to the door. There were bodies scattered on the stairs like objects being plainly thrown into the air and let fall. This time he didn't have time to stop and introspect, he simply reacted, allowing his legs to bring him down the stairs without making too much sound. The blood felt slippery under his shoes.

Dick held a gun at Dean, who had a bullet wound on his shoulder and slumped in a chair. Jo had her knife in hand, pointing at one of Dick's guys that had her at gunpoint. Benny was nowhere to be found, and every other person was either dead or injured so badly that could not fight back.

He stepped over another corpse to reach the other side of the table, and that was short enough distance to firmly point his gun at Dick's head. Dean had noticed him the second he got off the stairs, but gave out nothing more than a blink at Sam's general direction.

"You might wanna take your toy away." As Sam gripped the gun handle and held it up, Dean said, looking up at Dick with a pleased expression.

He clicked the safety, watching Dick turn slightly to make the discovery. "You heard him, now move." He said.

Jo took advantage as the guy lowered his gun a bit to divert some attention to Sam. Within seconds she had the person's gun and disarmed it, raising her knife again to point it at the man's throat.

Dick smiled coyly, and held up both of his hands, the pistol now hooked on his index finger with its safety off.

"Put it on the ground and kick it to me." He instructed. Dick followed the order as Sam spared a glance at Dean, who was a bit too pale that made the blood leaving his body look even darker, and there was unnatural beads of sweat on his forehead.

"Now get the fuck out of here, you have ten seconds." 

Before taking off, Dick turned around and studied him for a moment, then smiled again as he licked his lips, the mirth never reaching his eyes. Sam seriously considered to shoot them right then and there, but before he was able to decide, Dick was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think if you are still here as we are close to the last chapter! I hope this fic could be somewhat entertaining


	8. It always went down spiraling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of, I’m sorry for the late update and also this chapter’s plot.  
> Second of, in my defence I really don’t see any other way they could get out of it in one piece, so this is the best ending I could think of.  
> Again please beware of the Major Character Death tag and proceed with caution.  
> If you are cool with that stuff, you are my dude! And please enjoy ;)

He stared at the stairs after Dick left, eyes fixated on the thin, uneven lines of their edges that were emphasized by the fluorescent lights. It wasn't until a while after that he realized the lines were not paralleled, with all those years of wear and probably little maintenance. A sudden feeling of detachment nagged at his insides, as if provoked by the mesmerizing, seemingly endless lines of the stairs, it made him wonder what would really happen if he pulled - instead of let go - the trigger. Yet both seemed to elude meanings, which in fact, were the things that he thought he'd gain by joining this stretched melee that he puerilely believed he'd somehow come up on top.

"Personally I kinda hoped that you'd take that shot, but really, I'm glad you didn't. You're not me, and that makes you special."

He swallowed, throat contracting dryly. "Thank you." Dean's understanding felt out of place after their earlier dispute, but not entirely unwarranted. He chased the mobster's weary eyes, which were cast down in exhaustion. A thin stream of blood trailed down Dean's shirt from the open wound. "Shit. We need to patch you up."

"It's not a big deal, the bullet went through." Dean waved his hand in a dismissive manner. "I've had worse."

"That's not comforting at all, dude! You are fucking bleeding." His voice came off weird, high pitched and hoarse that he felt compelled to clear his throat. However the way he said those words made himself feel so much better, almost lighter as if it took the lid off the stress steaming in him.

From across the table, Dean grunted softly while he raised his good arm to press down on the wound. Sam rushed to his side, eyes searching the room frantically for something to stop the bleeding. In seconds Jo emerged from the back rooms, carrying a first-aid-kit. She signaled for Sam to step back before closing in to stitch Dean up, hands steady, ignoring Dean's fake, excessive cries. Sam smiled. "That's how we know you're gonna survive."

"Sympathy please? Somebody's in pain here!" Dean shot back, in a childishly imperative way that he used to mess around with people he cared. Jo snorted.

Sam shook his head, "so much for my effort to leave."

"No shit, babe." Dean chuckled, probably at the pet name he slipped out, his voice low. "Hey Sam?" He said as if he just remembered something.

"Huh?"

"Thank you, for saving my life."

"Yeah. Not gonna let you get off this one easy." Sam cocked one brow, holding up his arms.

"Wait. Where the fuck is Benny?" Dean looked up from his wounded shoulder.

"I think I saw him back there somewhere." Said Jo absentmindedly.

An air of uneasiness spread out in this space, like there were thousands of invisible strings being pulled tight and stretched to the brink of breaking. Benny was not here when Sam got down, and he wasn't one of the bodies on the floor now. Sam frowned, something was seriously off if Benny decided to take a nap back there before the shooting started.

"It's unlike him." Jo blunted, apparently noticing the change of air. She seemed to be mulling over couple of unpleasant possibilities, but refusing to give voice to any as she stubbornly stared at Dean's closing wound. She must have been close to Benny like Dean.

"Benny!" Dean yelled, eyes stern, his good hand unconsciously balled into a fist on the blood spattered table, then it loosened, fingers resting on the wooden tabletop.

There was some rustling in the corridor, the sound bouncing off the smooth walls and into the room they were in before it died down. The bodies lying lifelessly on the floor almost absorbent of echoes that would have been able to ring in the bricks. "Benny!" Dean yelled a second time, his gruff voice piercing through the space. This time unmistakable footsteps started in the back almost instantly.

Sam could feel his heart palpitate to the coming revelation, for him, it was easier to face the idea of Benny going rogue, but he could imagine how difficult it was for Dean and Jo, whose reluctance was palpable that he could taste it on the tip of his tongue.

Benny walked out, looking disoriented. Unfazed by the bodies, his eyes traced the three of them then settled on Dean, questioning.

"Nothing you wanna say?" Dean pressed, not shielding the distrust in his voice. Jo kept quiet, and she stared.

There wasn't any room left for debate, Benny's face was a blank, as if all emotions got drained out of him, out of tiredness or something else, Sam couldn't tell. The silence stretched out, it was like everyone in the room was waiting for someone else to break it. The tangible pressure finally took effect, Sam noticed the exact moment when a tiny shift flitted through Benny's brows. Then, as if felt Sam's stare, Benny's eyes caught his.

"I never trusted him." Benny bit out, eyes fixed on Sam.

"What did you do?" Dean's tone was eerily calm.

"Made a deal, copied his file from here, somehow Dick ended up hacking our computers." Benny sighed, "I know I fucked up. Should've been more careful."

"Maybe you should've trusted me." Sam couldn't help it, for all the time he had been around Benny, he never felt one single sliver of doubt, and now Benny's confession felt like betrayal.

"Get out." Dean growled, "Next time I see you, it wouldn't be this pleasant."

"Can't say I'm looking forward to it." Benny turned on his heels as he spoke, onto the stairs, ascending to his retreat.

Following Benny's footsteps, Sam stared at those uneven edges where the two perpendicular planes of the stairs intersect.

*

"What the fuck was he thinking?" As they were silently dragging the bodies to make way for their heavy bags retrieved from the back rooms, Dean muttered, without directing the question at anyone. "He couldn't possibly be jealous like some chick!"

"Hey, the chick's not being jealous here." Jo called out, brushing a flock of her blonde hair from her forehead.

Dean cleared his throat. "Sorry."

The mobster fell silent after the apology, and they moved the last handful of bodies to the corner, clearing them out to reveal a bloodied path.

"It's obviously a win-win for Dick, and sort of a... lose-lose for Benny." Dean mumbled as he brought the bags to the foot of the stairs.

"So what now?" Jo asked, "we only got three people, and that's granted if Sam ever dared to pull the trigger."

Sam shrugged, his car keys suddenly burning in his pocket as an idea formed in his head. "We should go to my place."

"I was about to say the same thing!" Jo looked at both of them, her eyes unwavering, "my place is in a building, downtown, which means suicide if Dick found us there."

"Alright." Dean picked up two huge bags, and one of those bags’ content clinked - presumably guns bumping into each other. "Sam? Lead the way."

*

Dean insisted to drop Jo off halfway, saying that she still had someone to go to, and he wanted her mother Ellen, who also ran a mob in the adjacent city, to know that he was thankful for whatever it was she did for him.

Then it was him and Dean again. Sam watched the asphalt road in front of them, the worn surface being eaten up in sync with the growing number recorded by the odometer on his dashboard. Dean didn't bother to turn on the radio, and so did him, as now they sat in silence, an air of sternness encasing them. Somehow Sam knew they were heading toward a kind of closure, either good or bad, and the nature of it was not within their grasps.

The trailer looked unfamiliar. Its husk seemed so worn that its original white color was barely recognizable, before he realized it, Dean was calling him out as he had been staring at it like he had "seen ghosts".

"Come on Sammy, you gotta pull yourself together." Dean went to help him get out of the passenger seat. Sam frowned, he didn't feel any different.

"I'm okay, let's just keep going."

"To where?" Dean was using a very soft voice, and it was making him feel strange. He looked away.

"Sammy, hey, look at me." Dean's once clear green eyes were bloodshot, tired, a pained expression pouring out with no inhibition. "I need you to focus. We are going north, far enough to reach the borders, you hear me?"

He nodded.

"I need you to say it." Dean's hands felt warm against his shoulders.

"We are going north." He opened his mouth, those words came out like a mantra.

"Good. Now go in and get your things." The mobster walked him to the trailer door, "we'll stay at most three hours. You got anything we could eat?"

"I have instant ramen noodles with bacon."

"Okay, then we'll have ramen and leave."

An hour later, he sat down onto the small couch fixed on the hull of the trailer. The degree of compression of the cushions felt alien, despite the fact that he had only been away for less than a week, and he sat there, hand clutching the fabrics of the duffle bag lying next to him. Dean's in the kitchen, supposedly making instant noodles. With his back to Sam, there was a slow, calming tune humming deep in the mobster's throat, as though vibrating against his sternum. The tilt in the mobster's shoulders was not difficult to spot, as an almost unconscious curl burdened Dean's injured side even though he tried not to show the imbalance in his movements.

Everything bore the semblance of those days surrounding first encounter, as if now was the moment lapping the night where he first scored Dean's money and finding the mobster in his trailer the next day. He laughed internally at the coincidence, it was like being mocked by whatever's out there in the universe, the thought induced a grimace to flit through his face. He shifted in his seat to make room for the other when the older man turned around with two bowls in hand, and the familiar smell of the noodles filled his nostrils.

Dean handed him a bowl as he leaned forward to leave a light peck on his forehead, "okay?" It was more an assurance than a question.

"Okay." Said Sam, feeling a lot less fidgety than when they first arrived.

Halfway through the noodles, no longer feeling that he was able to digest, he set the bowl down onto the small table as he turned sideways to look at the other. There was something fluttery clenching and unclenching in his chest, making him emotional and sentimental, and he almost felt compelled to seek something he could yet name from the other man.

"Dean I-" He opened his mouth, struggling to put the feelings into words.

"Shh, I know. Come here." The other directed Sam to lie on his lap, also putting the bowl down onto the small table. "Don't talk, we still got some time."

He hummed, the lump in his chest seemed to impede his verbal abilities as he shifted to rest his head on the other's lap, the couch too short for him to get cozy, so he ended up twisting his body into an uncomfortable position. But when Dean started ruffling his hair in a gentle manner, all the discomfort was replaced by the relief of the lump in him dissipating.

None of them bothered to speak in the next couple of minutes, the smell of bacon and ramen sauce floating in the still air within the trailer's hull, their long, steady inhales and exhales the only sound in this space.

He stopped to question the meanings behind it all some time after coming back to himself, no point in pondering, the imminent threat to his and Dean's lives more concerning than his petty existential crisis. A thin thread of thought in the back of his mind sported the idea of dying together with Dean, and his subconscious seemed to be amused - or satisfied by the image, because whenever he gripped the end of that thread and yanked, a feeling of emancipation would emerge.

"You ready?" Dean's voice rang clear in the motionless air, grounding him from the drifting realm of his thoughts.

"Yeah." He sat up, "let's go."

*

The drive from the trailer to the nearest town was without much resistance, nothing suspicious enough to raise both of their attention. Yet they were still in uncharted waters. Dick's people could pop up at any moment, especially as they were getting closer to the state borders. Remembering their opponent's dry click of tongue before he left the base sent shivers down Sam’s spine, making the hair on the back of his neck stand. It was like a promise, a wordless pledge for revenge.

The more they approached the borders, the more their freedom seemed to be out of grasp. There was some distant sound akin to a screech setting off in the back of his head, subdued, but urgent, like a bad omen, and his hand came to loosely grab the door handle, index finger tabbing its surface to the rhythm of an old song he could recall. But the incessant pressure continued to occupy his mind, magnified by the quietness in the van. 

Exhausted by his restless brain, Sam rolled down the window to take in some fresh air. It was getting cold as the night started to settle, daylight eaten away by the rising moon, exacerbating this loneliness that had been creeping inside him for the last couple of hours. The idea of everyone was all alone their whole life had never appealed to him that much before today, he used to be the type that dealt well with solitude, but now he couldn't even run away from it with Dean by his side. 

He took a breath, instantly feeling his head clearing up when the cool breeze hit him. "If we made it out, what would you do?" He sighed.

"We will Sam, we will." Dean said, his eyes stern. "I know you won't buy the 'happy ever after' bull, so I guess I'll have to show you."

He couldn't help but quirk the corner of his mouth, "okay. I'll wait."

And that was when he saw it - a black van with its headlights turned off, sneaking up on them. Paralyzed by fear, or was it a morbid feeling of relief? As he noticed a small reflective flash of something metallic from the van's window in the rear-view mirror. 

His body was coming back from the momentary frozen state quick, and he raised his hand in an attempt to warn the other of the incoming danger. The screeching sound was back, in full effect this time, propelling his heartbeat to elevate, until he could almost hear its blunt palpitation.

"Dean-"

A shot fired, the bullet piercing through air and leaving a vacuum space behind. Their van lost control before Sam could see the mobster's blood. Under the dying daylight, the blood's color was deeper than wine, and it looked thick like syrup. Some of it got spilled onto the steering wheel, edges of the round drop dimly reflecting the moonlight, and there was a splashing spot on the windshield as well. The seconds before another gunshot seemed to be stretched long and infinite, he peeked at the pulp that was Dean in the derailing car, head light as his mind couldn't quite process what just happened. He should mourn, but all he felt at the moment was the solace knowing that he was the next, that he no longer needed to carry the burden haunting him, that he could be with Dean till the afterlife.

He closed his eyes when pain bloomed in the back of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading! It’s been a while since my last update, and I appreciate all of you that are still here.


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